The Empty Heart
by CreamLemon
Summary: Post Reichenbach.  John is a changed man since the death of Sherlock Holmes.  Will his friend's return break him, or finally begin the healing process? John/Sherlock, John/Molly Sherlock/Molly John/Sherlock/Molly  Warning: dark!John.  See authors notes.
1. Chapter 1

A/N:

Lots of people liked the idea of dark!John, so here it is. I'm not 100% sure where this story is going yet. Before you read further, know that this is a *very* M story. There are BDSM themes, sex + violence, and likely some non-consent. John and Molly are not in good shape here, and they're gonna take it out on Sherlock, and each other.

Had a hard time defining this story's category. A combo of hurt/comfort/angst was the best I could come up with, but I'm not sure how well it fits. Apologies ahead of time if this doesn't turn out to be what you're looking for. If you reviewed my last story and agreed that dark!John would be awesome, this is exactly what you're looking for.

The title is a play on "The Empty House," the story that marks the return of Sherlock Holmes after his "death" in the canon stories.

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Ch 1

The only thing that thrilled John Watson anymore was a fresh body. As it turned out (once Sherlock was gone and he had no choice but to go back to work full time) John was a terrible general practitioner. It was boring. When Molly mentioned to him that there was an opening at the morgue, he felt he had little choice but to switch career paths.

Working crime scenes were interesting. He tried to examine everything with the same eye as Sherlock once had. He couldn't always solve the crime, but he could tell Lestrade how the victim had died, and in the course of two years he had helped close almost fifty cases.

The body on the slab in front of him was a Jane Doe, aged nineteen to twenty-five years. Signs of sexual assault, severe bruising, fractured skull. You didn't need to be a doctor to know how this one had died. John pulled off his bloody gloves and spoke into his tape recorder. "Cause of death, internal bleeding due to blunt force trauma. Boring."

"Did you just call that dead girl boring?" Molly entered the room with two coffee mugs.

John accepted his mug and swallowed down the too-hot liquid without tasting it. He didn't care about coffee, but found caffeine to be invaluable. "Where's the mystery Molly, where's the challenge?"

"The mystery is how you became such a tosser," Molly said, even though they both knew it was no mystery at all. "The darts club is meeting tonight. You should come."

"I'm working," John said, and wheeled Jane Doe back into the cooler.

"You're always working."

"The Work is all that matters," John replied.

"Don't do that," Molly said, her voice growing irritated quickly. "I hate it when you do that. Don't channel _him_. It's been three years John. Let it go."

John let out a sharp laugh. Three years and neither of them had let it go. John grew more sullen, and Molly more bitter with every day that passed. John never expected his grief to lessen, but he thought in time Molly would heal and move on. Instead she just got angry. He couldn't blame her. He was often angry at the memory of Sherlock as well. Anger was just a part of life without Sherlock.

"Come play darts," Molly tried again. "You get to throw sharp pointy things at a wall—that must make you feel good inside. I know it makes me feel warm and fuzzy all over." She nearly purred this, leaning into John. This wasn't a new behavior with her—they'd hooked up multiple times over the years, even during John's tragic marriage to Mary.

Mrs. Hudson had quickly tired of his moods. Lestrade was patient and indulgent (which could be infuriating), and Mary had only ever pretended to understand John's refusal to get over Sherlock's death. Molly was the only one who seemed to be capable of giving him what he needed, and she seemed pretty content with what he gave her as well.

John let Molly lean up against him. He wrapped an arm around her, sliding his hand up under her jumper and letting it slide across the smooth skin of her stomach. It was getting late, but not late enough. There were still plenty of people wandering the hospital. It would not be a good idea to—she leaned up and bit his earlobe.

Well, John wasn't known for his good ideas.

He took the coffee out of her hand and set their mugs down on the counter before dragging Molly off to the large walk-in cooler that dominated the room. Three bodies were lined up on gurneys in body bags, including the girl who had been killed in a sexual assault. Both were fully aware of this when John bent Molly over on an empty gurney and pushed her skirt up around her waist. She wasn't wearing panties—too much of a bother. He stroked her smooth skin before bringing his open palm down hard across her ass.

The walls of the cooler muffled the sound when she cried out—a necessity when carrying on these sorts of activities in the workplace. He enjoyed the feeling of flesh hitting flesh, of her ass growing hot and rosy as he spanked her. This was tame for the two if them but Molly screamed anyway, her cries soon disintegrating into a whining moan as her arousal grew, and she spread her legs in an attempt for him to notice that there were warmer, more moist places he could be focusing on

John's cock was always rock hard at this point, and he only needed one hand to free himself and plunge into her cunt. Molly's moan's were very appreciative, and John grabbed her by the hips and thrust hard and fast. They never lasted long in the cooler. It was cold in there, after all. Most of the time Molly didn't even bother with her own orgasm, and John wasn't too concerned with giving her one. He came fast and hard within a minute, inside her so it was a mess that she would have to deal with instead of him.

He exited the cooler first and was already at the work table, getting together the tissue samples from Jane Doe. "These need to go down to pathology," he said when Molly re-joined him, not looking the least bit rumpled but walking a bit stiffly.

"Just let me run to the loo-" she said, but he thrust the containers into her hands. Her eyes were on fire when she glared at him, but she bit back whatever she wanted to say to him. "Or I could just do it now."

"An excellent decision."

She turned to leave and he watched her walk, enjoying the way she kept her legs clenched together all the way to the knees, anything to prevent his cum from leaking down her legs in the hall. Molly. Ah, she was wonderful. She let him do whatever he wanted to her, and it made them both feel better. He wished he could love her. But he couldn't love anyone. Not with Sherlock gone.

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Sherlock Holmes stood on the exact spot where he had "died" three years previous, and stared at the hospital entrance. Was it interesting or troubling that John had taken a job at the same building where Sherlock had seemingly fallen to his death? It was troubling to be there again after three years on the run. Three years eliminating Moriarty's underlings, assuring that John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were safe. If only they knew what he had done for them.

Three years without a friend in the world, and he finally understood what friendship really was. It was sacrificing everything.

Everything.

His enemies were dead, they were safe, and he was ready to come home. His first instinct was not to return to Baker Street—it was to find John. This didn't surprise him at all. Three years of contemplation and loneliness had done a lot for him. He had done some soul-searching, and he discovered something remarkable and unexpected.

He_ had_ a soul.

He was as human as the rest of them after all and his soul pined for John. They way he took care of him, his sense of humor, the way he always considered Sherlock to be amazing when no one else believed in him. Once he was on his own it hadn't taken him long to realize that John had loved him, and he loved John back.

Sherlock shivered as he stepped over his death site and headed towards the front doors of the hospital, adrenaline burning through his veins. He was going to see John again, and he would tell him he had been an idiot, he would tell him that he was sorry, and that he loved him. John was his best friend, his only friend, and he loved him so, so very much.

He walked quickly, his excitement urging him forward at some speed. He wasn't even looking, just thinking, and he slammed hard into a person leaving the hospital, the impact such that the both of them fell to the ground.

"I am so, so sorry," the man said, scrambling quickly to his feet and reaching to help Sherlock to his feet. The world turned sideways and he nearly fell to the ground again. John. It was his John.

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John reached out to help the old man to his feet. The last thing he needed was to bowl over geriatric strangers and get sued. "I am so sorry," he said, grasped the old chap's hand. His grip was stronger than he expected, and it relived John a bit of his worry. "Are you alright?"

The man was tall, or would be if he wasn't bent over with a cane, grey haired and bearded, his face half-obscured by a hat and a flipped coat collar. "Quite-quite alright." He seemed a little breathless.

"Okay, good then." He hurried on his way, just out for a quick bite and then back to work. There was no more crime for the day, but there was another autopsy—a thirty-five year old man who had dropped dead for no apparent reason after a jog. Likely it was an undiagnosed heart condition, but John didn't want to rule out anything a bit more interesting.

He forgot about the man he knocked over while standing in line at the sandwich shop, and thought nothing more of him while he ate and walked back to work. It was a shock and an annoyance when he found the same man standing in his lab.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I hope so, Doctor Watson."

Wonderful, so he knew his name. John just wanted to get back to work, so he walked past the man to the cooler, hoping a nice fresh corpse would scare the visitor away. "I'm really busy," he said as he wheeled the gurney out. "So if we could-"

The old man was gone. In his place stood a ghost.

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End Notes: Dunno how probable it is for an army doctor to switch to medical examiner in the course of a few years, but it's just fanfic and I dont give a crap.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: My final problem is figuring out how Sherlock did it. I think I read somewhere that Gatiss said no one had figured it out yet—bollocks to all of it I say. I did the best I could with an explanation, and probably thought of it longer than I had to. Honestly, why couldn't they have just gone with the original waterfall? It would have made the lives of fanfic writers so much easier.

More or less followed the storyline of The Empty House for John and Sherlock's reunion scene. Seemed apropos as I'm a fan of ACD's canon as well. I considered it "light beach reading" when I was 11.

As I suspected with my first fic, writing Sherlock is much harder than writing John. The dialogue comes easily enough, but what's going on internally? I can feel it but I have a hard time expressing it, oh, in a masculine manner.

Meredithriddle: Clearly Molly is attracted to jerks. :) I think she likes it when John channels Sherlock, but she hates it too.

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Ch 2

Johns entire world turned grey, then black, but only for a moment, and he was blinking awake from a faint stretched across the dead body he'd been wheeling out. Sherlock was at his side. "Sorry John—I didn't think you would shock so easily."

His legs were shaky when he straightened up. "Shock easily! You're dead! I've finally lost it. I've gone 'round the bend."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said.

"No, no, no," John said, voice wavering as a cold panic rushed through him. "I saw you fall."

"You saw me jump, and then you saw me on the ground. The falling bit never actually happened."

"No, Sherlock, you were dead—I know you were dead. You were on the ground and there was blood and you were dead. I was there—I'm a doctor!"

"You were emotionally distraught. You only saw what you expected to see."

"You didn't have a pulse!"

"Tetradotoxin—a powerful neurotoxin that-"

"I know what it is," John snapped. "I also know that there isnt an antidote for it."

A smile played on Sherlock's lips and John desperately wanted to smack it off. "Baskerville had been working on one and Dr. Stapleton is a powerful ally when you have the right leverage. Thank you Bluebell!" He was getting excited in his explanation, and John's urge to hit him jumped exponentially.

He had developed an awful problem with impulse control.

His swinging fist came unexpectedly, crashing into the side of Sherlock's face before he could react. The detective stumbled backwards and John, without thinking at all, launched himself at him, knocking them both to the floor.

Sherlock didn't fight back, he simply brought up his arms to protect his face from Johns wailing fists, and John pounded on him over and over until his arms ached and his hands hurt. Only then did he roll over onto his back beside Sherlock on the floor. "Three years Sherlock."

"I know."

"And you're not dead."

"No."

"I hate you."

"I understand."

"Do you want to get out of here?" John asked.

"Sure."

John pushed himself up on his feet and offered Sherlock a hand up. He would be pretty bruised up across his entire upper torso in a few hours—John couldn't wait to see that. All those bruises over pale flesh...he'd imagined it so many times in his anger, beating Sherlock into a pulp for leaving him, and now all those dreams were coming true.

"C'mon, I'll take you back to my flat," John offered.

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He only lived a few blocks from St. Barts, with three pubs en route, just in case. Living in walking distance to a pub was much more important to him than it used to be. "You're not at Baker Street anymore," Sherlock said as he led him up to the second floor. His address was 220 B. The coincidence wrenched at his heart when he and Mary first looked at the place, but now he was rather fond of the number.

"I couldn't stay there, could I?"

"I don't see why not."

"Of course you don't," John said. He hadn't changed. The idea of a place holding emotions, holding on to ghosts...Sherlock would laugh at it. "Besides," John continued. "Mary didn't like it there."

Sherlock's voice was sharp. "Who's Mary?"

"My wife."

Sherlock gave him a wide-eyed look and John pushed the door open, letting him inside. He stood silently while Sherlock took everything in. It had been nice to get back to the spartan lifestyle of his army days, without all of Sherlock's clutter. The flat was neat, sparse, and very him. "There are no women living in this flat," Sherlock said promptly.

"That's because she's dead." He hadn't intended for his voice to sound so cold and...accusing. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that Mary was dead, and it wasn't his fault either. It _was_ Sherlock's fault that he had never actually loved her.

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock said quietly.

"No you're not," John snapped. "You never met her, and if you had you would have hated her." Sometimes _John_ hated her. She knew he didn't love her and she had married him anyway. She knew that Sherlock was the only person he would ever love, but she'd tried her best and it was pathetic and sad. The car accident was almost a blessing for them both, as far as he was concerned. "Do you want a drink?"

"Actually, I just got back into town and I need to check in with a few people."

"_Check in_? Are you insane?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "I just want my life back."

_Well you can't have it_, John wanted to say. "Will you be back?"

"I was going to ask you if I could have a kip on your couch tonight."

"Of course," John answered. He'd never been able to deny Sherlock anything, and really, the idea of Sherlock leaving his side did not appeal to him at all.

"Then I'll be back in a few hours."

"Okay then."

Sherlock turned towards the door, but then turned back. "I—I really missed you."

His voice caught in his throat—he was going to cry. "I missed you too."

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Sherlock left John's flat before he started crying. Imagine him crying! It was harder than he thought, going back, and he needed to get away and collect himself (nor had he been lying—there were a few people that deserved to know that he was alive as much as John).

He deserved the beating John had given him, though it surprised him a little. John had never been the type to fly into fits of rage—that was Sherlock's job. John was supposed to be calm and collected. John was supposed to be...John. Could three years change a man so much? (Yes. It had changed him, but he'd been on the run, the entire country convinced he was an evil con man. John's life had just gone back to its normal, pre-Sherlock state. John had had it easy.)

Maybe it was the wife. He'd never been able to truly picture John with any of the flighty, dull women he picked out for himself. As soon as he had his back turned John just went out an married the first girl that would have him. Figured. Well at least she was dead. A wife around would have been highly inconvenient. He hoped John wasn't too upset about it. He didn't seem upset.

Sherlock did the calculations in his head. The last time he and Mycroft had spoken about John was about a month after his "death," and his brother hadn't mentioned anything about a girl, and Mycroft would have known. John's flat had clearly been cleaned out since her death—on the wall opposite the east-facing window he noted a scattering of less-faded patches on the wall, barely noticeable because it meant that the pictures had only been hanging for eleven months. John hadn't been wearing a wedding band and there was no tan line that would suggest that one had been worn over the summer, so John had not been wearing one for quite some time.

Based on these observations Sherlock could only deduce that the marriage had been a short one, and likely not one of particular emotional attachment. This made him feel much better.

In _fact_, he could take John's excessively emotional reaction to his non-death as a good thing. Clearly he had gotten any anger out on the first try, and now they could get back to the perfect life (he'd never known how perfect) he'd had before this mess ever started.

There was a bit of a spring in his step when he went to check in with Molly. She'd been such a good girl keeping his secret. The poor thing deserved a pat on the head.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Glad everyone's liking the story so far. I think this chapter reflects John very well. John is awesome because he is a kind, gentle person who has a secret violent streak. He rather craves it I think.

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Ch 3

A few hours after Sherlock left there was a knock on his door, and John jumped to attention, anxious to have him at his side once more. He didn't want to let him out of his sight ever again.

It wasn't Sherlock at the door. It was Molly. She was pale and silent as she stepped into the the flat. "I take it you've seen him," John said. "Must have been a shock."

Molly didn't answer. She walked past him to the bedroom. Without speaking she began to take off her clothes, folding them neatly and setting them on top of his bureau. "Molly, what are you doing? Are you okay?"

She shook her head. "It's over. Three years and it's over."

"What is? This?" He gestured to her nudity. "Just because Sherlock is back doesn't mean you and I-"

Molly burst into tears. "I knew he wasn't dead you idiot," she said. "I-I helped him fake his death. I've always known."

She continued to sob, collapsing on the bed, and John slowly began to take in what she had said. Three years of misery, and it all could have been avoided...Three years of his life, his psyche dashed to pieces. Broken apart and put back together in all the wrong order, and yet Molly hadn't felt like telling him something so important, so vital to his very existence.

John set his face to a grim frown. "Stand up Molly." She did, and he went over to the chest where he kept the things he liked to use on her. One of these things was a set of hand-crafted leather cuffs attached to a sturdy chain. The chain connected to a hook he'd had embedded into the ceiling, firmly screwed into a beam capable of holding her weight.

She let him lock the cuffs around her wrists and he stood on the bed to hang her from the ceiling by her wrists, so that she had to stand on the tips of her toes. He went back to the chest and retrieved the riding crop. He had found it in Sherlock's room when packing—it was Molly's favorite.

"How many lashes do you deserve?" he asked Molly.

"Thousands," she moaned, and John felt a little spark of sympathy for her. He really should hear her side of the story before punishing her.

"What about thirty?" he offered instead.

He thought Molly liked pain. In the past she took his beatings with silent stoicism, and came like a banshee when they had sex afterward. This time she cried with every stroke, screaming and sobbing until John couldn't take it anymore, and he stopped after twenty.

John unhooked the cuffs from the ring in the ceiling and Molly nearly collapsed in his arms when he set her down on the bed. Normally he liked to admire the red stripes across her thighs and ass, but her face was a red mess of tears and snot. He went to the bathroom and returned with tissues and helped her wipe her face.

She pushed him away and reached for the riding crop. "Please. I'm not done yet."

"Yes you are," he said, his voice soft, wishing she would stop crying.

"He made me promise. He said he didn't know how long he would be gone and I—I loved him so, so much. I loved that man for years and he finally noticed me. He said that I mattered and that he needed me. _Sherlock Holmes needed me_. Me!" The word screeched through her sobs. "I've always been used, by everyone. Jim Moriarty, you, but I never cared about that. I cared about him, and there was no way in hell I was going to betray Sherlock Holmes because I loved him and he needed me."

_Poor, poor Molly_. And John thought he was broken. He forgave her even before she started speaking. Sherlock Holmes. The bastard.

"So I kept my mouth shut. It wasn't easy. I do _like_ you John, very much. I might even love you a bit, but not as much as I love him. So I let you hit me because I _needed_ it, to punish myself for lying to you, and to remind myself that I was being used by a man I loved who didn't love me back _yet again_. I hate myself and I hate him but I never stopped loving him either. Now please, please keep hitting me!"

When John refused to take the riding crop from her hand she started hitting him halfheartedly with it until he took it away from her. "You're done tonight," he said. "Do you want a sedative?" She fell back on the bed and nodded.

John had a pharmacological cornucopia in his medicine cabinet—anything to take the edge off when things got bad. He picked out the ones that Molly liked best and returned to the bedroom with a glass of water. Her crying had calmed and she took the sedative readily, and he sat holding her until she fell asleep.

As he held her John's heart broke a little bit more. He felt hollow and empty. All this pain, all this suffering, because Sherlock couldn't, over three years, take the time to pick up a phone and give them a ring.

He was so happy that Sherlock wasn't dead. But he was so very very angry. No one could love Sherlock the way he and Molly did. He was pretty sure no one could hate him the same way either. Three years.

Three years, and he hated him.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I know its been a billion years since the last update, and I'm very sorry. Other projects have been distracting me, and I keep getting sick or injuring myself. (At this moment I'm typing with a half-mutilated right index finger.)

Ch 4

Sherlock did not get back for hours, and John waited, a grim expression set on his face, clutching the bottle of pills he had given Molly. Finally Sherlock returned, not bothering to knock. He simply walked into the flat like he owned the place.

"Remind me never to fake my own death again, John," he said as he took off his scarf and coat. "It is exhausting. Mrs. Hudson cried on me for three hours. I'm sending her the dry cleaning bill."

"How did Lestrade take it?" John asked, keeping his voice neutral. He got up from the sofa. "Tea?"

"That would be lovely," Sherlock said with a sigh, a smile playing across his face. John would take care of that soon enough. "He spilled his coffee and started swearing all over the place. And the look on Anderson's face! It's good to be home."

"It is." He went into the kitchen and Sherlock kept talking through the doorway.

"Mrs. Hudson is already planning to annoy 221B's tenants out of the building. We'll be properly back in Baker Street in no time."

John had the tea brewing already, hot and too strong and laced with pills. "Just like that you and I are going to move back in together?" he asked when he returned with the tray of tea things and some biscuits.

"Don't you want to?" Sherlock asked. "I think we had a rather good thing going. Didn't you?"

John had to let out a laugh. "Living with you was a bloody nightmare," he said.

Sherlock looked up from his cup. "Really?"

"You were messy, inconsiderate, and irrational at the best of times. Body parts in the kitchen, violin music at four in the morning-"

"I thought you liked my playing."

"Four in the morning, Sherlock!"

He watched Sherlock take a sip of the tea, wince, and take another sip. "Your tea-making skills have definitely gone downhill." Sherlock added more sugar and cream and drank down the entire cup as John watched, face set in an expressionless mask.

"Three years is a very long time."

"I know, I'm sorry. I promise to make it up to you. Make up for lost time..."

"Time isn't the only thing I lost," John said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "The therapy bills alone-"

"Did that get you far?" He didn't answer. "I didn't think so. You and I both know therapy is useless. Lestrade says you've been an indispensable part of his team."

"I suppose."

"I like that." Sherlock drained down a second cup, and John waited for his eyes to start to droop and his voice to slur. Anything to make this uncomfortable small-talk stop. All he wanted was revenge.

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Sherlock woke up slowly, aware that he had been drugged but not quite comprehending what it had happened. His brain was heavy, slow, and not at all normal. He was laying on his side on a bed, and he appeared to be naked...

He began to struggle, only to be hampered by a pair of well-made leather cuffs around his slender wrists. Another pair were affixed to his ankles. Both were snug, and locked. "John?" his voice came out in a half-slur, and was echoed by another voice, female.

"John," Molly called. "He's awake John." She was sitting in a chair across from the bed with her legs tucked underneath her, and she was very naked.

Certainly Sherlock had seen naked women before. He had even been in the presence of them on more than one occasion, but seeing Molly naked was an entirely different thing. He knew her, for one, and liked her. She wasn't exactly what he considered beautiful, but she was pretty in her own way, and she was his friend. He was not accustomed to seeing his friends naked. Three years certainly did make a difference.

Sherlock was facing the door, giving him a good, if slightly blurry, look at John when he came into the room. The last time Sherlock had seen John without a shirt he had gone a little pudgy with civilian life. The pudge was gone, and John, standing there in just a pair of jeans, looked a bit like a middle-aged Adonis. He was strong, he was intimidating. John gave Sherlock a long, studying look. "Hello Sherlock."

"What is this?" Sherlock demanded. "What's going on?" It wasn't good, he realized that.

John stepped closer to him. "Three years, Sherlock. It's a very long time to suffer." John grabbed him by the cuffed wrists and yanked him up, and Sherlock struggled to get his bound legs under him for support, resting on his knees. "I don't think you realize what kind of hell you put Molly and I through."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, hoping he sounded sincere and not frightened. He already knew that sorry was clearly not going to cut it in this instance and John and Molly might have gone 'round the bend a bit in his absence. So instead of being truly sorry (he didn't manage sincerity well, even when he was being truthful) he focused his attention on the situation at hand. He could get out of the cuffs easily if there was no one in the room and he had access to a bit of 20 gauge wire, but he didn't think that would happen. So the question was, what were they planning to do to him, was it so very bad, and could he talk them out of it?

"I'm not," John said.

Sherlock had already noted the heavy chain hanging from the ceiling, not doubt securely fastened to hold the weight of a human being. John was very strong and Sherlock was even thinner than he had been three years ago. It didn't take him much effort to drag him across the bed and, standing on an nearby chair, had Sherlock neatly hoisted up and hanging from the ceiling in minutes.

Sherlock did not struggle and he did not protest, but once he was hanging, his arms stretched taut and his feet just touching the floor, he looked from John to Molly and back again. Molly seemed nervous, drawn into herself, while John was the exact opposite. Sherlock had never seen him like this before. Confident, strong, in charge. John had always _wanted _to be these things, and now...he had changed and Sherlock had missed it.

"Come here Molly," John said, and Molly obeyed, unfolding herself and stepping over to them. She stood in front of John, who snaked a possessive arm around her neck, cupping one breast. She was _very_ different without her clothes on. Slight belly, shaved...and did something glitter down there? Pierced. She was pierced. "Do you have something to say to Sherlock?"

She turned to bury her face in John's neck, but John grabbed her by the chin and forced her to look at Sherlock. She stared at him for a long time, and Sherlock became more aware of his nudity than he ever had before. Naked in public was nothing to him, but he was shackled, set out for display, vulnerable.

Molly wasn't looking at his body. She clung to John and looked Sherlock directly in the face. "I hate you." It wasn't the words that struck him, but the lack of feeling behind them. Pretty much everyone he had ever made acquaintance with told him they hated him, but the way she looked at him, he had a feeling she meant it in ways the other ones never did. Her face was still, barely reacting, and her voice was quiet and even. She was a woman who had lost faith in everything, and it was his fault. She continued. "You told me I mattered and I believed you. If I had mattered you wouldn't have left me alone with this terrible secret for three years."

"I'm sorry," he said. He could feel the stretch of his arms begin to grow uncomfortable. He was ready to be let down now. Groveling might be the answer. "I'm an abominable prick, you know that. I didn't mean to hurt you; I never _mean_ to hurt anyone. I can't help it. You know that."

"I do," she said.

"Apology accepted?" _Please, please let it be accepted_.

Molly looked at John, who gave her a short nod. "Yes," she said, and stepped back behind John. It had been easy—too easy. Sherlock had a feeling John wasn't going to be so easily talked down from the cliff of sadistic insanity he and Molly were teetering on. John didn't look like himself. Over the last three years Sherlock had mused over whether or not he had made the correct decision in going underground. He was starting to think it might have been the wrong one.

"My dear John," Sherlock said as John took a step towards him, looking at him with a cold, blank expression. "Let me down and we can talk about this like reasonable human beings."

"Reasonable?" John said. "I didn't think the great Sherlock Holmes knew the meaning of the word."

"Well, it becomes very appealing when one is hanging naked from the ceiling like a side of beef." This discomfort in his arms was beginning to become a burning pain, and his hands were growing stiff from the limited circulation caused by the cuffs.

"I'm sure it does. Well, I am done being reasonable, Sherlock. I'm done being pushed around by you, and following you around like a lost puppy. If you think I'm going to forgive you-"

"Just an idea," Sherlock said.

"No." John told Sherlock no so many times in the past and had always ended up doing what Sherlock wanted anyway. The tables had turned. John was getting what he wanted. Had Sherlock been so wrong about their relationship? He thought they were best friends, but maybe John had always held a resentment, maybe John had never liked his self-centered attitude. Maybe...

"John, this is very uncomfortable. Aren't there usually safe words involved in this sort of thing?"

"Of course," John said. "When it's consensual."

Sherlock loved John. Perhaps John didn't love him back and never had. Sherlock closed his eyes. "Do whatever it is you need to do," he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Molly," John said. "Get me the riding crop." Sherlock kept his eyes closed, until he felt the leather tip of the crop touching his face. "I found this in your room after you died," John said, and Sherlock's eyes snapped back open.

John was standing inches away from him, looking up because even in this state of dominance, John was still short. "I imagined what it was doing there. I imagined some terrible things." The grin he displayed showed no mirth. "It's one of Molly's favorite toys because it belonged to you."

"Did she also tell you I used it to beat corpses and nothing more?"

"Oh, I did that too," John said, still smiling in a way that frightened Sherlock a little. "It's a stress reliever," he said with a shrug.

He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and spun him around to give him access to his backside. Sherlock waited for the first stinging lash to come down on his back, and it did, with so much force he cried out even though he had already decided he wasn't going to give John the satisfaction.

"Scream and yell all you want," John said. "The walls in this flat are surprisingly thick."

The second lash was even harder than the first and by the fifth Sherlock was blinking back tears. The sixth hit him across the shoulder blades, the seventh across his ass. The riding crop came down over and over again, until every inch of his flesh was burning and stinging.

He did observe that John was careful to miss his kidneys. As soon as he realized this he relaxed. John hadn't gone completely 'round the bend. He didn't want seriously injure Sherlock. He was just teaching him a lesson. Sherlock almost wanted to laugh, but his vision was starting to go blurry and every inch of him, even the bits that weren't being attacked, screamed in agony from hanging from the ceiling for too long. Everything was going to be okay.

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	5. Chapter 5

A/N: When it takes a long time to write something it inevitably ends up going in a different direction than intended. Over-all I'm very happy with the characters. I think the character growth is as realistic as it could be considering the semi-sadistic road I sent them down. Sherlock is interesting because he is more aware of emotions and motivations than he used to be and is actually more mentally healthy than he was before he faked his death, while John and Molly are basket cases. (Molly fell into this story accidentally, but I really like her in this capacity.)

Sorry updates have been so far apart. I'm finally doing original stuff again. I had one story accepted for an anthology recently and I'm 2/3 of the way through a novella that I hope to be shopping around later this summer. I started a blog for my pornographic endeavors. Leighwilder (dot) blogspot (dot) com. If you wanna bookmark me.

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John lost count of how many times he hit Sherlock. It felt so good every time he brought the riding crop down across Sherlock's thin, pale form, relishing every red stripe, and tiny cuts where the edge of the leather hit his skin just right and broke through, leaving small rivulets of blood.

"John," Molly finally said, touching a shoulder slick with sweat from the exertion of beating his best friend. "He's had enough." Sherlock had stopped struggling and screaming. "I haven't," John said.

"He's passed out."

John looked. Sherlock was hanging limp from the ceiling, eyes closed. "Oh. Damn. I thought he would last longer."

"It's been almost an hour." John looked at the clock by the bed. Well, it was easy to get carried away.

John had to stand on a chair to get Sherlock down from the ceiling, and he let the detective fall unceremoniously on the bed. Sherlock moaned when he hit the mattress, but he didn't wake. "I suppose you can clean him up now," he told Molly, who nodded. "Wait." John retrieved the digital camera from the bureau where he kept the toys. He rolled Sherlock on his stomach and began snapping pictures of his damage at every angle.

John felt good. He felt strong, vindicated. All of the times he ever wanted to give Sherlock what was coming to him (before and after his 'death') he had never been able to. Sherlock was the man in charge in their relationship, whatever that relationship had been. Now John had the power.

Sherlock had given in so easily, maybe it was what he had wanted all along. John smiled. He was the man who had _dominated Sherlock Holmes_.

John let Molly take care of Sherlock's wounds, and, feeling tired and pleased with his work for the night, shifted Sherlock in the bed so he had a place to lay down.

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Sherlock woke to pain. It was some of the worst pain he had ever felt, and over the previous three years he had been through a lot. He had been fortunate that torture was never a part of the experience, and it was ironic that he would end up coming home to it. He was still cuffed, but now the room was dark, and he made out that he was pressed between two bodies in John's king-sized bed.

John's bare back was pressed up against his, his body heat excruciating on his wounds. On his other side was Molly. She didn't have her back to him. Instead she had wrapped her naked body around his, and it was even more odd than seeing her naked. Sherlock had never...cuddled...before. It figured that Molly would participate in drugging him, tying him up, and beating him just so she could share a bed with him.

These people were crazy. Had they been crazy before he left? Yes, he quickly decided. Molly's obsession for him despite his numerous cruelties and rebuffs was clearly a sign of mental illness and John...John craved violence. He never admitted it, but he and Sherlock both knew it was true. He needed it, just like Sherlock needed puzzles to solve. John and Molly had been teetering on the edge of insanity their entire lives. Sherlock leaving them had sent them over.

It was a big thing to take responsibility for, but he was willing to. Because they were his friends and he loved them.

Of course, he didn't love them so much that he wasn't going to try to escape. He hoped Molly was a deep sleeper. The idea was to ease carefully out from under her, difficult with his hands cuffed, but he didn't get very far before she clutched him tighter and opened her eyes. "I'm not asleep," she whispered. "John has me keeping watch on you. I'm supposed to wake him up if you try to escape."

"I'm not trying to escape," he said.

"I hate it when you lie to me."

"Molly. You can't possibly think this is appropriate behavior. You're not a cruel person. I'm sure you know where John keeps the key to these things. Let me go."

"I don't want to," she said. "I like this." She leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips were hot and urgent but Sherlock's mouth was slack, not knowing what to do. Her breasts were pressed up against him and she had one leg thrown over his hip. Too close. She was too close. Sherlock found the intimacy oppressing, claustrophobic. It was almost worse than the bondage. "I like knowing you can't get away from me again," she whispered into his ear when she pulled away. "Even if you tried, John's not going to let you. He's never going to let you go now."

"What does that mean?"

Molly didn't answer, but gave him an odd smile. Did she mean that they planned to keep him trussed up, a captive in John's bedroom? For how long? Days, weeks, months? Forever? He didn't think John was capable of something so terrible, but then he never imagined that John would do what had already been done.

Enough was enough.

Sherlock twisted around to face John's back and balled his fists up tight, bringing them down hard in between his shoulder blades. He was able to get in two good blows before John was fully awake and aware of what was going on, and he was on his feet and grabbing at Sherlock, jerking him away from Molly and across the bed.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Sherlock," John said. He had Sherlock by the cuffed hands. Molly turned on a bedside lamp. John's face looked sinister in the half-light. "What exactly did you think that was going to accomplish?"

Sherlock got up on his knees and looked at John with as much dignity as he could muster. "I was simply trying to get your attention. You've had your fun with me, and I let you do it because clearly you had some issues you wished to resolve. I think it would have been both more practical and more polite to _talk_ about it, but I understand that you perceive me to be in the wrong, which is fair. Yes, I did fake my death, but it was for everyone's well-being. Especially yours."

"Fuck you, Sherlock."

"No, no. Listen. As long as I lived they were going to come after you. I haven't been off on vacation for three years you know. I've been criss-crossing the globe, hunting down Moriarty's associates and neutralizing every damn one of them. Because if I didn't they were going to come back here and hurt you." He turned to Molly. "And you. Everyone I ever cared about was in danger, so yes I went into hiding. For you."

"You still could have let me know you were alive. You could have let Molly tell me the truth."

"And make her a potential target?"

Johns voice was grim. "Some things are worth the risk."

"Yes. Keeping you safe was worth every risk I took. Every damn one. While the two of you have been here, safe and oblivious and driving each other insane for no good reason, I've been out risking my life for you. Don't tell me about risk, John Watson. You have no idea."

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John stared at Sherlock, hair hanging in his face, furious grey eyes staring at him, and it was a beautiful sight. "I've just missed you so much," he whispered.

"I missed you too," Sherlock said, never breaking his gaze. "I love you, John Watson."

John had imagined a scenario in which he punished Sherlock over and over again. It had been one of his go-to fantasies for the last three years. Never had he imagined Sherlock saying those words because it just wouldn't happen. Sherlock Holmes, if he did love anyone, would never admit it. So when he heard the words coming out of Sherlock's mouth, it wasn't as though he actually believed them.

"Screw you," he said, and threw him down on the bed again. This was too much. Sherlock Holmes, admitting love? "You must think I'm some kind of idiot."

"Of course you are," Sherlock said, his face pressed against the mattress. "But I've never held it against you, and I won't now."

"Just shut up." Annoyed, John brought a flat palm down across Sherlock's whipped-tender buttocks, and was rewarded by a yelp.

"I love you," Sherlock repeated, earning himself another smack. John didn't know what his motives were, other than Sherlock was lying to get out of the situation, and John did so hate it when Sherlock was manipulative.

"I think he means it, John," Molly whispered. She was curled up into a tight ball at the head of the bed, watching Sherlock's continued beating. But clearly that wasn't going to do Sherlock any good—he'd already made it through large amounts of pain without cracking. But there were other things John could do to him. Things that would surely break him into tiny, tiny pieces.


End file.
